


These Games We Play

by PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Demo has a question, Heavy is everyone's older brother, I assumed a few things about how the comics end, Other, Partying, Pyro is they/them, Pyro was left alone with fire, Scout and Miss Pauling have a secret, Slight character study of Miss Pauling, Time-period Typical attitudes, as do the rest of the mercs, chaos as usual at RED base, minor meme, nonbinary fire child, post-comics, red team - Freeform, some angst and emotional turmoil, too bad they're lightweights, who needs a canon first name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 00:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8600581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess/pseuds/PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess
Summary: To commemorate their return to Fortress Corp., having thwarted Gray Mann and the Classics, RED team's mercenaries decide to hold an impromptu party when Miss Pauling shows up unannounced on their doorstep. Which would have gone brilliantly, if it didn't turn out that Scout and Miss Pauling have a heck of a secret, and they're lightweights. And that was when the evening went from good, to great.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImberBimber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImberBimber/gifts).



> I'd apologise in advance, but I think we all know I don't mean it.

 

Under normal circumstances, it was a downright ‘dismissable’ offence for any personnel from the illustrious organisation’s administration team, to liaise with members of either RED or BLU, for non-business purposes. In other words, if you were not sanctioned to interact with the hired killers; your future in the company looked rather bleak.

The aloof, detached persona adopted by persons from ‘Team  _ PRPL _ ’, as the mercenaries on both sides of the little war had come to call them, made certain that neither Redmond nor Blutarch ever felt that their brother’s team was receiving greater favour than their own.

 

In short, it was to maintain the balance of things in as equitable fashion as possible. Keeping everyone alive through the appearance of a blatant lack of favouritism for either team’s mercenaries.

 

This was displayed prominently by the Administrator herself, through a stunning portrayal of indifference for the eighteen mercenaries’ continued lives, deaths or standards of living. Additionally, and rather particularly, this ruse also extended towards Miss Pauling; Helen’s personal assistant and primary espionage agent. No other PA in all the land was as put-upon as this young woman, and yet, she still worked admirably. Graceful under pressure, certain in her killshots, and perpetually unassailable under general circumstances; including the flirtatious advances of certain young men and their laughably bad pick-up lines.

 

Of course,  _ other  _ lackeys existed; skulking about within the shadows of the  _ Fortress Corporation. _ Most hired directly through a painstaking series of awkward interviews and trials; and yet others who were on indefinite loan from  _ Mann Co _ . as a sort of unusual overture of courtship from Saxton Hale to The Administrator.

 

No matter their method of employment and integration into Fortress Corporation, they all learned swiftly; follow the instructions laid out for you to the letter and nothing more, show no initiative unless sanctioned, never ask  _ too many questions _ or become  _ too chummy _ with the mercenaries of RED or BLU… and so on.

 

Else Miss Pauling would have to come and see you… then no one ever would again.

  
  


Termination from the company had a tendency to come in the form of a pink slip, and a bullet between the eyes. Besides, almost everyone outside the team members, and Miss Pauling, were disposable, replaceable; pawns to be sacrificed for greater gain. At least, when viewed from the Administrator’s unique perspective on the situation. And even the newest of recruits knew to fear the elderly woman’s scheming mind; as she could make their lives infinitely better, far worse, or much shorter… upon a whim. They were  _ nothing _ .

 

She tended to remind them all of this fact with a bi-weekly e-mail of the same phrase. It was effective in motivating the faceless employees to follow her every order as designated; whilst simultaneously removing even the vaguest shred of rebellion from the herd. Their fear was delicious.

 

It was not easy, living and working under such a regime, especially given the high degree of secrecy their occupations eschewed; but the pay made every action, every heart-stopping moment of fear, worth it. Almost.

 

Just the light, rhythmic clatter of Miss Pauling’s heels on the walkway tiles was enough to send hardened agents and killers skittering in all directions, hoping to instill the illusion of productivity successfully, lest those footfalls cease outside their cubicle. Lest today be the one wherein The Administrator decided to ‘let you go’ for shirking your responsibilities. 

 

Show no favour, form no attachments, do nothing to break the rules… and you will live.

All within Fortress Corporation, hired or borrowed, abided by these rules like religious tenets; as if their very lives depended upon them. Because, funnily enough,  _ they did _ .

 

~)0(~

 

Which is why it seemed to cause such a stir amongst the team-monitoring crews and mercenaries alike, when Miss Pauling arrived at the RED base one evening, without leave, and entirely without explanation for her visit. The eight men (and Pyro) were all busy settling back into the familiar patterns associated with their 2Fort base of operations; and none had been prepared for the sight of her striding inside, scandalously clipboardless, and seemingly without any overt purpose for the visit. 

 

Nothing was on fire. The briefcase was in its alcove. No bread had been teleported. 

And yet, there the young woman stood; unflappable and aloof as always, whilst the nine mercenaries from various walks of life, all stumbled into the common room to attend her. Some were more put-together than others; but thankfully, it appeared Spy had managed to persuade the sticky, grinning Soldier, into some pants prior to allowing the military man into the room. 

 

For his part, the Frenchman was watching her with practised disinterest; though his eyes betrayed something akin to curiosity, and slight contempt. Thankfully, she did not have a secondary mission for them, this day; because Spy clearly was not of a mindset to play along with it. 

 

Not to say that her arrival was met with anything less than complete enthusiasm from the other classes; well, certain ones more than others. Miss Pauling was certain the expression of cheerfulness that Medic and Heavy were portraying was rather false, as if they had other things to be doing elsewhere and her mere presence had interrupted them. However, like the other mercenaries in the room, they remained silent about any grievances that the purple-clad woman might have invoked; as her arrival, welcome to a degree as it was, also instilled a thrill of concern through the REDs.

 

Miss Pauling appearing without warning or preamble, usually heralded news of some great import. Good. Bad. World-shattering. 

Rarely was it benign.

 

Therefore it was perfectly logical that none present could allay the sudden onset of churning discomfort in their collective stomachs as their eyes beheld the distinct shades of purple that made up the young woman’s suit. For some reason, many present had automatically begun to associate it with danger; imbue the colour with an ominous sensation of worry, readiness, the surge of adrenaline. 

 

Not that they would ever verbalise such a thing. It was silly, and  _ ‘downright Pavlovian’, _ as Medic had once said whilst drunkenly musing on the team’s odd reactions to their Administration Liaison’s attire. Looking as if he would explain the statement, right up until Scout had asked what ‘ _ Miss P’s sweet outfit had to do with Sniper’s favorite dessert _ ’; at which point the German descended into hysterics, and could not be coaxed to complete a full, coherent sentence for the rest of the night.

 

However, the words rang uncomfortably, unconsciously, in the minds of many present.

Miss Pauling was the harbinger, the herald, the messenger… and if she stood before them, then something had quite clearly gone awry once more. Plainly, the situation was bad enough that the generally highly-organised young woman had failed to bring, or had indeed lost, her iconic clipboard. Though, out of courtesy, no one mentioned it.

  
  


Many a mind was currently whirling back to a time, not half a year before, when she had been sent to advise them all of their imminent dismissal from both RED and Fortress Corporation simultaneously. Offering them no explanation as to why, uncharacteristically rattled and half-manic with a multitude of emotions that none of the mercenaries (save perhaps Spy), could possibly untangle in the short time available to them; the poor young woman had to bear the bad tidings, and the brunt of their disbelief at the turn of their fortunes, alone.

 

The Administrator had fled.  _ Mann Co _ . had fallen. All had seemed lost, irreparably broken, as they packed for home and said their stilted goodbyes.

 

But then, everything had happened so suddenly after that. A veritable whirlwind of chasing teammates and australium all over the globe, fighting bears whilst clad in nothing but honey, throwing down with the original Fortress mercenaries, dealing with the third Mann brother, Sniper’s death and subsequent resurrection thanks to the Medic’s mad science, finding out their original employers were finally dead for good, fighting more robots,  _ that inadvisable mud-wrestling tournament with Saxton Hale to celebrate his return to the position of CEO of Mann Co.  _ and everything else that had led to the  _ nine _ -... er, eight men and Pyro, finally returning to the familiar base.

 

The magnitude of what they had done, seen and fought was still racing dizzily through many a mind as each took to clearing the dust out of their ‘home’. Using familiar tasks and actions to help them sort through the experiences that had practically assailed them all from the moment RED had been forcibly disbanded.

 

Engie had spent some time tinkering with the Respawn systems, checking for functionality, and finally proclaiming it useable… even if he had to test it using an unwilling subject, just to be certain. Scout still wasn’t talking to the man.

 

Medic and Heavy had taken apart the Infirmary; Soldier and Demo, the Armoury. The latter resulting in several loud, rather unnecessary detonations that the pair were utterly chastised over by the team’s Doctor. At least it allowed the man to test each of the mediguns in turn, pronouncing them all remarkably well-maintained, despite his absence. 

 

For his part, Medic was still feeling off-kilter, no longer fully integrated as a member of the team due to his temporary defection; especially in relation to Heavy, who still did not completely comprehend why his ‘Doktor’ would side with men who wanted nothing but to kill his friends. Not to mention that the resident Aussie, (er,  _ Kiwi  _ now), wasn’t on the best of terms with him after the whole resurrection situation. 

Therefore, the medical man tended to get rather overzealous and methodical about the healing process; even the slightest boo-boo got you a  _ kritzkrieg _ shoved in your face, and an automatic overheal. So far, the rest of the team had grinned and borne it; but several were getting close to either losing their temper at the continuous nannying, or just plain telling Medic that it was fine… he didn’t need to hover to earn his place back on the team. Regaining their trust, however, was going to take more than a few overheals and kind words… but that was a problem for the future RED team.

 

Sniper had spent the last few days in his van. Only allowing the  _ surprisingly-quiet-when-he-wanted-to-be _ Scout to spend time with him; often doing nothing more than sitting out on the roof with him at night, watching the star-filled sky, and not saying a word between them. The sharpshooter clearly wasn’t ready to talk about… the whole ‘afterlife’ thing; and Scout… was a little enigma of his own as to why he was being so well-behaved. But on the other hand, all the mercs had found themselves doing some serious soul-searching after what they’d faced. Maybe this was how motor-mouthed runners processed multiple non-respawnable near-death experiences, that occasionally included hotdog costumes and ropes. Who can say?

 

As to the final male member of the team… no one was quite sure.

Spy was definitely on the base somewhere, periodically making contact with the Administrator in order to gain insight into the plans for the future, and sharing it through messages on the fridge, or scrawled across shared bathroom mirrors. Whether he just felt the need for distance and space after spending all those months in a tiny cell with his  _ so _ -... team’s Scout, his literal opposite in every way; or perhaps, the mystery man just wanted alone time to contemplate their current situation, it was entirely unclear.

 

However, if Engie left a tray of food outside the man’s smoking room, then it would always be eaten and the utensils returned unobtrusively to the kitchen by the next meal. With not a single man, nor Pyro, on the team ever being able to spot the espionage agent lurking about the base on these covert crockery-and-cutlery returns.

 

Speaking of the firebug, Pyro just tended to unobtrusively follow certain members of the team around whenever they could be found. Of course, this was fine, unless the designated target had no idea that the arsonist had chosen to tag along with them… which had involved several incidents of loud, fearful screaming at all hours of the night as the mercenaries in question realised they had a guest. Trying to get a glass of water at three am was never more stressful… but Pyro seemed happy, and that was what mattered; so everyone just sort of let it happen, occasionally making a big delighted fuss over whatever overly-saccharine or flame-filled drawing the firebug gifted them.

  
  


Cohesive and healing, distant and dissociative; they all had different means of working through what they’d witnessed, and been party to, in the last little while. Best to just let everyone get on with things, until the BLU team arrived again, and matches restarted; or whatever the Administrator would want them to do next. 

  
  


Still, the sudden arrival of the petite purple-clad assassin was a surprise to everyone. No matter how fond of her each class had grown over the course of their chaotic campaign to restore Mann Co. back to its rightful owner, and the Australium to the Administrator; her arrival sparked some small degree of fear. 

 

The only one seemingly not affected, was Scout. Who automatically clocked her arrival, slouched awkwardly against the nearest vertical surface in what he most likely assumed was a ‘cool’ pose, and pasted on a shiteating grin. 

“Heeeeey Miss P, are you a baseball diamond? ‘Cause I sure wanna hit a homerun on alla ya  bases!” the runner beamed, to the utter horror and embarrassment of every other team member present. Spy looked to be three seconds from smacking him, for the sake of good taste everywhere; how they’d survived months of prison together without killing one another for good, no one knew.

 

Normally, she stoically ignored his awkward advances with well-cultivated disinterest. Today, though… Miss Pauling actually let out something akin to a laugh, before she stifled it under a slightly-bloody hand; managing to turn it into a professional sounding ‘ahem’ before her unusual reaction became too obvious. Making a mental note not to multitask when coming to see the mercenaries; as several glanced at the blood under her nails, and blanched at the implications. 

 

“I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here, guys,” she begins, broadcasting at large to all the mercenaries she could see, and the one she couldn’t. He had to be in the common room somewhere, though; it’s where the others had congregated after all, and Spy was more curious than a boxful of cats combined. It was unlikely he’d cloaked just to slink off after enduring a Scout come-on without murdering the runner. “Nothing’s wrong, in fact, the Administrator is quite pleased with you all, and how you handled the whole…”

 

She made a vague hand gesture that somehow encompassed the craziness of their lives in the far-too-recent past. “Moving on… we’re still trying to relocate a few members of BLU, so you’ll have to be patient for another week or so before the matches can start again. The Administrator asks that the RED Engineer and Medic check everyone’s respawn chips and uber implants are working correctly, but to try not to get anyone killed permanently in the process because replacing you all ‘ _ would be annoying _ ’. Her words, not mine.”

 

Miss Pauling pauses, frowning, as if she’s forgotten something… then snaps her fingers in remembrance. “Ah, yes, that’s right, she’s sending you a few new toys for when matches restart… but you’re  _ not to touch them until your chips have been proven effective _ . So, try to resist if you can, fellas. And, uh… she may have also sent-...” 

 

The next words were too mumbled to make out exactly.

 

“I didnae catch that, lass, can ye repeat it a wee bit louder?” Demo asks, a couple of feet away at the Dining table; haphazardly leaning back on his chair so he could see her properly with his one good eye. 

 

Miss Pauling looks the demolitions expert dead in the eye and elaborates, “I said, ‘ _ and she may have also sent you a shitload of booze _ ’, which you are  _ also _ not allowed to die from. It’s… the Administrator’s version of a thank-you note, I suppose, and she wants you to enjoy it… because she doesn’t do grand magnanimous gestures like this everyday.”

 

There was a clattering thud as the Scot hit the ground in surprise, and wide-eyed delight. “Oh, aye lassie, we’ll keep that in mind. Now, where did ye say this grand old gesture of gratitude was hiding?”

  
  


“Do not answer zhat, fraulein.” Medic intercedes, sharply. “Half zhe people in zhis room are yet to have breakfast, und I am not going to treat alcohol poisoning zhis early in zhe morning.”

 

“Aw doc, can’t ya just let us have a little fun there, pal?” whines Scout, bouncing around the older man like some sort of excitable terrier whose owner had finally come back home from work. “Promise no one’s gonna do anything stupid or whatever, c’m _ ooooooooooo _ n.”

 

“Nein. Everyone in zhe room can do vhatever zhey feel is appropriate, alcohol-wise, after five o’clock tonight, und I vill not judge zhem; but it is too early. Perhaps Fraulein Pauling vould like to stay around until zhen, und ve could have something exciting for dinner.” The German compromises, watching the batter visibly deflate as he thought about the Medic’s suggestion.

 

“Ah reckon it wouldn’t be too hard ta get the old bar-be-cue workin’ again,” Engie adds, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “If that’s to ya likin’ ah mean, Miss Pauling. We can always do somethin’ else if ya don’t fancy grilled meats.”

 

“Uh, thanks for the offer, but the Administrator will probably want me to-...” she cuts off as her brick of a cellular phone goes off. Tentatively, she opens it. “Hello? S-sorry I’m taking so long ma’am, I just-...  _ what? _ No. Yes. Of course, Administrator. If that’s what you feel is the most appropriate use of my time…  _ thank you, Administrator. _ ”

 

She hangs up, wide-eyed, and only just manages to choke down her surprise. “I mean, yes… barbecue for dinner would be great.”

 

The Texan claps his human and gloved robot hand together in delight; no one responds to the odd whirring sound it makes at the movement. “Alrighty then, ah reckon we all need ta go get ourselves sorted for tonight’s little party. Py, Solly, y’all come with me now and get the grill workin’. Sniper, can ya check what kinda meat we got in the freezer, ah haven’t taken inventory yet and ya good with that sorta thing; that don’t mean goin’ out and catching something if there ain’t enough, mind. We can just go for a drive ta the store; ain’t never eaten armadillo, and ah don’t intend to, Stretch. Heavy, might need a hand with setting up the old firepit out back; looks like there’s some robot parts still scattered all over the place; can you’n’Medic check out how bad the damage is? If ya get bored, ya could always decorate the place for a party, think we still got some Halloween streamers around these parts.”

 

The stocky man whirls around to the room’s other occupants, those visible and not. “Demo, ya clearly in charge’a festivities in terms a drinkin’ and music, so’s ah won’t go tellin’ ya how ta do ya job. No stickybombs anywhere a drunk teammate can reach ‘em, we ain’t gonna do that again. Spy, ah know ya here somewhere ya masked varmint… you’re on Scout-sitting duty. And Miss P, ya just  _ relax  _ for once.  _ Her Upstairs _ works ya too hard, so just spend time on the couch or wherever… and if a  _ certain brat _ bothers ya too much, call for Spy ta deal with him.”

 

Nodding in bemusement, to the backdrop of Scout’s vehement protests that, ‘ _ as a legal freaking adult he didn’t need no babysitter’ _ , Miss Pauling acquiesced the builder’s request with a smile. Tossing a set of keys over to Demo, she strode across the room, hurdled the couch and flopped down in front of the television. Finally, a day off.

  
  


“Well that’s settled, then. Everyone else, vamoose. And kid, ya leave that poor woman alone, or ah’m gonna tan ya hide, ya hear?” Engie warns, voice fading along with the mass exodus of footsteps. She doesn’t hear Scout’s response, because either they’re too far away… or she’s falling asleep.

 

~)0(~

 

Miss Pauling jerked awake in a panic, hands fumbling for the weapon she didn’t pack that morning. How careless.

 

Had she overslept? 

 

Was this reality... and all the happy, whacky shenanigans of before just some sort of weird hallucination from Spy’s cyanide pill?

 

Did a target for termination get the best of her and now she was locked in someone’s trunk awaiting an ironic fate? 

  
  


“Whoa,  _ relax _ , it’s just me!” cries the voice of the person she’d smacked in her flailing. With a few sharp blinks, and a readjustment of her glasses, Miss Pauling gazes curiously up at the RED Scout. His cheek is rather an angry crimson, now; ironically matching his shirt.

 

Her eyes dart about the room, immediately. He laughs.

 

“Nah, we’re alone, ya don’t have ta pretend. Well, I think we’re alone… dat is. Spy’s somewhere in da building, but he’s more’n likely out there pitching a fit ‘bout whatever Truckie’s cookin’, than snoopin’ here.” The Bostonian rapid-fires at her, but Miss Pauling just nods along, idly watching figures move on the television screen as she did so. “Uh, Miss P? Ya doin’ alright in there?”

  
  


“Hmmm…” she hums back, flops back and really stretches out the kinks sleep has wrought on her exhausted body. “I’m fine, Scout, thank you for your concern. Are you certain we are alone, presently?”

 

“As sure as ya can be with an invisible team member lurkin’ around, yeah.” he responds, dropping to the edge of the couch. She draws her legs up a little, and the runner scootches back to sit fully on the seat; making an annoyed huff when the purple-clad woman unceremoniously dumps her feet on his lap.

 

“Ya slept with ya shoes on? Man, ya musta been tired…” he mumbles vaguely, fiddling with the laces and tugging them off. “Don’t do dat too often though, tends ta fuck up ya circulation or something, makes ya muscles ache like  _ crazy _ … learned dat da hard way.”

 

His hands massage slow circles into her lilac stocking-clad ankles and calves with practiced ease; relaxed, dissociated demeanour an impressive lie in itself. If she’d made a move to reject the touch, he’d have backed off immediately… but as it was, the almost-massage always made her feel better. And, yes, Scout was quite right… she should not have fallen asleep in those shoes; her ankles felt exceptionally tight and painful right now. 

 

It was interesting, these quiet moments between them. When no one else was around to perform for, to play the roles they had set from day one; and just enjoy the others’ company for what it was. Sometimes they talked, other times they sat doing their own thing, just because. Occasionally, they helped; like now, as the Bostonian carefully teased the ache from her sore legs with the insight of someone who had learned the hard way, why stretching before exercise was important. And she helped back, when she could; providing the same sort of relief to aching, bandaged wrists, after a day of sharp recoils from scattergun blast after scattergun blast. Little things. Little interactions.

 

Everything easily misconstrued. Easier to keep secret.

 

_ Although, to be quite fair… they could have been a tad more discreet _ . Miss Pauling thinks, staring up at the security camera in the corner of the room; being lulled back to sleep by the small whirring noise it made on every revolution, and the periodic flashing of a small red light, as her aches finally begin to dissipate under Scout’s careful attention. 

 

She almost didn’t care… that it was recording their every move.

 

~)0(~

 

A loud explosion rocking the compound startled both mercenaries awake, each immediately throwing themselves off the couch and searching for weaponry… before realising it was just Demoman having a bit of fun, and laughing uproariously at their own instinctual reactions. 

 

“Ah, zere you are.” Spy cut in, appearing behind the crouched pair, a lit cigarette to hand and smoke trailing lazily about his form. “You would ‘ave missed ze festivities ‘ad you slept for much longer,  _ mademoiselle _ , Sco-... _ lapin _ .”

 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to…” she starts, but he waves her statement away.

 

“It does not matter. Ze Texan ‘as pronounced dinner to be almost ready for consumption, if you like zat sort of fare, and asked me to retrieve you. Also to find out why Scout ‘as been so quiet for so long… I ‘ad not anticipated finding you both sleeping in ze same location, but… in zis occupation, one learns to never be surprised at ze unexpected,  _ non _ ?” smirks the masked man, taking a long drag as his blue eyes rove over the pair; expression caught between disinterest and mischief. 

 

“Ain’t what ya think, ya creepy Spook…” groans Scout, standing up and handing Miss P her shoes. An obscene amount of clicks and pops echo as he stretches heartily, and he stretches slightly, as if trying to apologise to stiff muscles for sleeping on the couch in such an awkward position. 

 

“Oh,  _ oui, mon petit lapin _ …” Spy agrees, too enthusiastically to mean anything but trouble. Though the man says no more and continues towards the doorway, two grumbly mercenaries stumbling after him. “It is only everyday zat you find two teammates sleeping together in ze base’s common room,  _ oui _ ?”

 

Scout lets out a strangled almost-noise and stops dead; leaving poor Miss P to slam right into the back of him, and send them sprawling to the floor again. Spy doesn’t turn around, but it’s clear from his laughter that he knew what had happened.

  
  


“ _ Sonofa- _ ... ya alright there, Miss P? Dat guy’s a real freakin’ bastard when he wants ta be, and I swear one day I’m  _ gonna- _ ...” the runner underneath her suddenly stops speaking and adopts a very different tone. “ _...-’n dat’s da secret ta winning a game’a Twister without getting like, too weird. _ Although ya doing great, Miss P! Ya wanna go play a round or two in my room?”

 

“Scout, ya mongrel, what did Engie tell you about keeping a civil tongue in ya head while Miss Pauling was here?” Sniper calls, from in her blindspot. She barely has time to blink before the sharpshooter has offered a hand, and is righting her, while Scout flails upright with approximately the same grace as an electrified sloth. 

 

“Ta be fair, Snipes, she pinned me down if ya know what I mean…” countered the batter, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously. Miss P made a show of rolling her eyes heavenwards, as Sniper let out a series of heaving guffaws. 

 

“Keep dreaming mate, it’s got ya this far.” The older man consoles, patting the Scout on the shoulder. “Alright, enough of this, grub’s waiting outside. C’mon.”

 

He’s steered them down the hall and out the back entrance to the base before either of them can really respond. They’ve scarcely cleared the doorframe before Engie has handed them each a plate full of various well-cooked meats; and Demo tosses a bottle of… probably beer, at them. Fast reflexes stop the strangely-labelled beverages from striking the ground.

 

“Uh, where’d ya get this, Miss P? Pretty sure dat ain’t even close ta English…” mutters Scout, peering curiously at the bottle. It was true, this was some sort of imported beer the Administrator had apprehended during her search for the Australium; vaguely popular in Germany and Sweden, though neither language was on the label. 

 

She shrugged in response. His guess was as good as hers.

 

“Ah, ze ‘appy couple ‘as arrived.” Spy sneers, tone cordial, even if his expression promised they would regret being born. “I was just telling ze others ‘ow I caught you sleeping together on ze couch…”

 

“By the strictest definitions of the words, we were indeed sleeping together in the common room.” Miss Pauling responded, huffing as if put-upon. “But if you think a bad baseball pick-up line would rile me up enough to do anything other than time-share the oddly comfortable couch… I have some bad news for you.”

 

Her words were aimed at Spy, though she directed the expression of derision at Scout. The other mercenaries hooted, hollered, and shouted words of praise and consolation at the runner; who, for his part, was acting as if her words had mortally wounded him.

 

“How can ya not fall for a baseball pick-up line, Miss P? It’s da best game there is!” he whines, exaggeratedly flailing the full plate and beer all over the place as they moved over to the spare logs by the firepit. Fully ablaze and under Pyro’s watchful eyes.

 

“...Scout, the mere fact I have to explain why,  _ is  _ why.” She retorts, smiling tightly.

 

“Ah, ya just playin’ hard ta get. Everyone loves baseball…” Scout says, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Don’t worry, ya can admit ya love me anytime, I can wait.”

  
  


“Hah, und ze swine vill fly, eh, Heavy?” Medic teases. “For zhe record, Scout, not everyone is obsessed vith zis silly little baseball game of yours. Herr Heavy und I did not need bad sports metaphors to gain each other’s attention or affection… vhich leads to the conclusion zhat you are simply terrible at flirting, or Fraulein Pauling is not interested.”

 

Scout makes a horrified noise, forgetting about his plate as he jabs accusingly at Medic. “How dare ya! For one, we all knew you’n’the Rooskie over there were gaga for each other from day one… and two, it ain't my fault ya ain’t got no taste in sports. Not ta mention dat, third, I am awesome at flirting, heck I could steal Heavy from ya if I wanted… but I won’t ‘cause I’m nice like dat and also, no offence big guy, but I don't wantcha when Miss  _ P-for-Perfection _ is sitting over here and single.”

 

The other REDs were enjoying this whole situation far too much. Tossing in a subtle remark and getting a rapidfire response in return, mostly full of violently egotistic, and pro-Miss-Pauling, rhetoric. She was trying hard not to laugh; and took to subtly sipping the beer instead.

 

She finished her meal quickly, and, for lack of anything else to do, began to sneak pieces of meat from Scout’s plate as it moved past her face in various gestures in response to the conversational topic. He actually only noticed when he was down to a few piece of bacon and a sausage.

 

“Aw hey, who stole my-... Oh, Miss P. Dat’s okay then.” he puts on that terrible grin, and she braces for it. “Ya know, if this ain’t enough ta satisfy ya meat cravings, I can always-...”

 

She slams a hand over his mouth, “No. Nope. Do not finish that sentence.”

He grins under her hand, and mumbles unintelligible nonsense underneath the calloused palm; as if protesting. The other mercenaries roar with laughter; Engie throws a very disapproving paternal look at the runner, indicating he was going to get a  _ Texan Talking To™ _ later on.

 

“Can you behave?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. Scout makes a big show of nodding back. She slowly releases her hand, “Alright then…”

  
  


“...but are ya sure ya don’t want ta try a different kinda mea-...” he’s cut off by the beer bottle she tosses in his open mouth, having to focus on not drowning, over finishing that rather unique come-on.

 

She grins as he chugs the golden liquid desperately, “Oh, stick a cork in it, buddy.”

 

~)0(~

 

The party has finally become a party, more recently. Booming music, streamers being launched every whichway, a surprising number of fireworks being let off outside (and one inside, to the surprise of everyone present), the random appearance of a table full of snacks; and alcohol. The sheer quantity of the latter being imbibed could probably kill a small army, and yet here the mercenaries of RED were, happily depleting the world’s supply of inebriating liquids as if it were no big deal that half the people present could casually out-drink an elephant.

 

Who knew what time it was? The only certainty was that the sky was darker than before, with a wide swath of stars and constellations spiralling out in all directions over the desert’s rapidly-cooling expanse. Most had moved inside, where it was slightly warmer. 

 

Not that the firepit’s blaze was not still ongoing, it was just… there was less chance of requiring respawn standing next to the small fireplace that fed heat through the common areas. Indeed, Pyro remained somewhere outside, making loud muffled laughter as the flames grew ever higher; the towering inferno, burning ever hotter.

Certainly, Engineer was trying his best to maintain a watchful eye on the situation, but when the firebug really let loose, there was no stopping them. Not even Engie could reign them in… and besides, most of the base had been fireproofed after, well, _ last time _ . 

The unspoken consensus about the room was, ‘let them have their fun’, because really, what was the worst that could happen under the circumstances?

 

After all, why not? Tonight was a celebration of… so very many achievements and experiences,  _ that probably needed more alcohol than was even available in the world today _ , to process. Everyone had a right to express themselves in their own way.

  
  


Inside was comfortable. Cozy and festive, all at once.

She’d danced earlier, of that fact, Miss Pauling was quite certain. Everything else was delightfully fuzzy and no longer important, as she’d made her way through the veritable sea of jiggling, jerking and awkwardly waltzing men. The young assassin had never claimed any great prowess at the activity, but here, it did not seem to matter one iota. 

 

Her dance, if that’s what the ungraceful yet rhythmic actions could be called, had been about as classy and co-ordinated as those displayed by rest of the RED mercenaries present. Which is to say, her inability to dance had gone largely unnoticed in comparison to the rest of the room’s tempo-driven flailing, and impromptu conga-ing. 

She’d seen what Scout was capable of on the dancefloor about two seconds in, and immediately regretted not having a camera with her; it was just too funny. Though it had not been enough to make the purple-clad woman turn down his request to dance  _ with _ him; resulting in what could have possibly been the least coordinated two-person macarena in the history of physical movement. The others present had certainly gotten a kick out of watching; if the uproarious cheering was anything to go by.

 

Still, all that movement clearly drained the energy right out of her; leaving the flushed and panting Miss Pauling to stumble away towards the nearest seat. Conveniently snagging one at the RED dining table not too far away, and sighing aloud as her poor, aching feet finally had a moment’s rest after all that tomfoolery. Somewhere down the table, she glimpsed the evil cornucopia of alcoholic beverages from which many had partaken copiously already, and continued to utilise even at this hour of evening. Though the esky seemed just too far out of reach for her to retrieve anything; and the young woman was tired enough to settle for the mostly-consumed bottle of inebriate in her hand, to avoid further movement. Her body was still rebelling from that afternoon’s nap on the couch, and all the stiffness such a thing had entailed.

 

She hissed aloud, wishing that Scout had not been right about not sleeping with shoes on; as there existed a lingering ache from that mistake, just underneath the new throb associated with all that awkward dancing she had partaken of. Naturally, Scout was nowhere in sight when she needed another ankle massage; but at the very least, they seemed to ease a little when the majority of her weight transferred to the wooden chair.

 

As did the discomfort in the rest of her body, when she draped herself across the surface in what an outside observer might term ‘an elegant collapse from exhaustion’. And she knew there were people beyond those present in the room, who were watching everything that happened; minding every word, every action, everything. Yet, for once, the ‘personal assistant’ just could not bring herself to care about whatever The Administrator’s toadies were recording right now; let them see her in all her drunken glory and falsely assume it would be enough to keep them safe from her retribution. 

 

Others had tried. 

Others had failed.

Others had been buried in shallow desert graves with no fingerprints and unrecognisable facial features; never to be identified. Nameless husks who should have known better.

 

She… giggled. It really was quite funny how far people had gone to catch her off-guard, the discredit her, and yet… one little bullet, a hacksaw and a shovel… and  _ poof! _ they no longer posed any threat. Not to mention, The Administrator personally  _ paid _ Miss Pauling to dispose of these people. Hah, how-… how  _ hilarious _ . 

Or… or it  _ would _ be funny, if she didn’t have to be on her guard all day, all night, every waking moment; hoping no one finally caught on to a dark secret, a slip-up, something that would give them enough of an edge to rise up. To find anything that they could take to Helen, and overturn The Administrator’s favour for Miss Pauling; to have the chance to take her place…  and then  _ she  _ would be the faceless, fingerprintless corpse in the middle of the desert. 

 

At least no one would miss her.

Well, perhaps these men… and Pyro, would. Even the BLUs, who were always amenable to her sudden arrivals and egresses. Maybe it was the stress of everything that had happened recently, that had sprung these dark thoughts from the depths of her mind; heck, Miss Pauling could recall openly weeping in front of Spy, to the point the man had offered her half his cyanide pill in order to calm the young woman down. 

 

And didn’t it beat all, that the thought of a swift death had been almost as comforting as a warm, tender embrace? Or, she assumed it was. _ Those _ were few and far between, when one was raised under the guidance of The Administrator. 

Sometimes Miss Pauling wondered what… her own parents were like, who they had been and if they’d meant to leave her alone in the world; to be bought and utilised by Helen, who taught her to wield a weapon, long before they had ‘The Talk’. 

 

_ She could have lived her entire life, without having to hear about the birds and the bees from The Administrator; to say nothing of the visual aides.  _

 

Then again, Sniper had met his true parents… and that had worked out abysmally for everyone involved. Heh,  _ ah-bis-mahl-lee _ … what a  _ funny word _ . She fights the small snort that bubbles up, but it makes it out anyway. 

  
  


“Are you alright, mademoiselle?” Spy asks, eyebrows raised behind the mask as she giggles at the odd sound she’d made, and of course, the pronunciation of ‘abysmally’. 

He actually seems concerned, that was  _ nice _ . Miss Pauling tells him so. 

 

“Ah,  _ oui,  _ madam. As I understand it, zhat is ‘ow teams function.” The masked man seemed slightly taken aback at how far gone the petite purple-clad woman was, but took it in stride automatically. “It is important to make certain you are as sound as you can be, given ze circumstances and trials we ‘ave all faced. ”

 

“ _ Mmmm’fine _ .” she hums back, oddly comforted by the closeness of others. 

So rare in her life, these days; and how  _ odd _ it had been to realise just how intensely isolated working for The Administrator had made her all these years. Never more blatantly obvious than upon her return from the impromptu international mission. It was like going from feast to famine, from a social interaction perspective. 

 

“Thanks for asking… Spy.” She blinks up at him with a sweet smile, eyes not quite managing to open and close in unison. He seemed about to comment, when Miss Pauling snapped her fingers in sudden realisation, “Hey, did you know ‘Abysmally’ is fun to sound out?  _ Ahhhhhh-bisss-mahhhll-leeeeee _ … ‘sfun. You should try it!”

 

He looks at her more thoughtfully this time, and then reaches out a gloved hand to move a nearby unopened bottle of beer - _ and how had she missed that? _ \- out of her reach. “ _ Oui _ , it is truly fascinating; though I must decline your… enthralling offer to test my own vocal prowess against such a word. Per’aps I can persuade you to try some water instead, Miss Pauling? I would offer you a refreshing cold shower, but we do not ‘ave enough duct tape within the compound, to ensure your privacy… whilst Scout is still conscious.”

 

The Frenchman’s lips quirk slightly at the end of his statement, clearly identifying it as a jest; and she snorts again, rather more vehemently than before, gasping for breath between gales of laughter.  Miss Pauling was aware enough to know she was far beyond tipsy at this point, but also quite content in the knowledge that of all places she might get completely wasted… here was where she was safest to do so. 

 

It was a poorly-kept, and rather embarrassing secret; but unfortunately, when it came to alcohol… she, and a certain other member of RED, were both the youngest, smallest and lightest of weights when it came to imbibing any liquid that could double as a firestarter. To be honest, tonight’s whole awkward alcoholic interlude had been caused by… oh, she didn’t know, exactly.

 

It might have only been a singular bottle. Or… or perhaps one and a half. Miss Pauling was rather uncertain as to whether the mostly-depleted bottle she held ensconced in her hand, was the same from earlier at the firepit. Wait, no, she’d jammed her first bottle into Scout’s mouth to forestall an obscene meat pun… so  _ that means _ , uh,  _ that means… _

 

Well, this was probably bottle two. Maybe three. 

Either way, it was a flustering affair. Demo had taken a few draughts from the provided beer-like liquid, stated it was alright but not even enough to get a fae jester tipsy, as if he was an expert in supernatural inebriation; before handing out some larger bottles from in the back of the liberated crates. And yet, here the purple-clad assassin sat, somewhere approaching wasted, on the most paltry amount of alcohol ever recorded by man… or apparently, fae. 

  
  


She blinks as Spy places a tall glass of water before her. When had he moved?

 

“Do drink ze entirety of ze glass, and remember to take even breaths, Miss Pauling.” He advises, seemingly slightly out of his comfort zone seeing the normally meticulous personal assistant of The Administrator… so very drunk. Offhandedly, she supposes that had she found Spy wasted, it would also be quite a shock to the system; and no effort would be spared to sober him up enough to function.

 

“Aw, th-thanks Spy… first promising to share your cy-cyanide with me… now you g-get me water… you’re r-really nice. Did you know that?” Miss Pauling says, genuinely touched. He looks so uncomfortable right now, but does not deny the statement or the sentiment behind it. 

 

It was a good thing a third party interjected, or the grateful tears that pricked at the back of her eyes might have made the situation more uncomfortable for everyone. Especially Miss Pauling, who had always thought herself more of a nostalgic, brooding drunk; over sentimental and weepy. Though, there was always a first time for everything.

  
  


“ _ Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm _ ind if I sit here, p-pretty lady?” Scout drawls, flopping into the chair directly beside her with a slightly manic chuckle. Spy gives him a very pointed look, almost a warning to be on his best behaviour; that the young runner completely ignores, as he beams at Miss Pauling.

 

“Hey...” He stage-whispers, voice low and unusually conspiratorial, as he leans over to Miss Pauling. The others close by the table, who are all pretending not to listen, visibly lean in to hear the latest disaster of a pick-up line to come from the kid’s mouth. “Hey Miss P, I’m searching fer buried treasure round these p-parts tonight, wouldja mind if I took a look around ya chest?”

 

Spy nearly hurls the glass of water he was fetching for Scout, at the batter’s head, in outrage. Never would he have said such a ridiculously terrible thing to someone, in courtship. 

The rest of the room seems to have stilled, waiting for the petite purple-clad woman to up and shoot their youngest member for the sheer audacity of such a line; especially after all the meat-based innuendoes they’d had to endure earlier.

  
  


Instead, everyone is pleasantly surprised and shocked to find Miss Pauling reacting completely opposite to that which was predicted. 

 

At first, it comes out as a sob; meaning many of the men in the room take a step closer, just in case she needs comforting. Then, Miss Pauling lets out a slightly louder snort of laughter, face flushing bright with alcohol-fuelled mirth at how horrifically bad that particular pick-up line had been. All the more hilarious for how unabashedly proud of it, Scout seems.

 

Indeed, the runner attempts a suave wink and double-fingers guns manoeuvre at her; which is somewhat hindered by how incredibly inebriated he is, and the half-full bottle of beer in his left hand, that he has apparently completely forgotten about. The contents of which slosh absolutely everywhere at the movement, staining shirt and furniture alike; as his teammates groan, as one, in second-hand embarrassment.

  
  


“Och, just give it up laddie, she isnae into ye and I cannae understand how ye’re daft enough not tae see it.” Demo calls, as the whole scenario begins to impede on his delightful buzz. As always, he seemed to have adopted the mantle of safety warden due to his incredible ability to imbibe just about anything without losing his head; thereby being the sole person present who tried their damndest to stop the others from doing anything potentially detrimental to their ongoing wellbeing; physically, mentally, emotionally or socially.

 

From the Scot’s perspective, he’d failed in relation to Scout; only because he hadn’t removed that third bottle from the boy’s hand an hour ago. They’d all seen this trainwreck coming.

The rest of the party were watching on, expressions ranging from bemused to downright wishing they could be anywhere else right now; an upbeat song filled the otherwise silent air. 

 

“He’s… he’s got a point, mate,” Sniper tries, adopting that very specific gentle tone he used on wounded animals or concussed teammates. “You can lob all the, frankly bloody awful, lines you want… but it don’t look like it’ll work out with this particular sheila, ankle-biter.”

  
  


“Pffft,” Scout snorts ungracefully into a bandaged fist, giggling along with the equally-tittering Miss Pauling. Like two children who’d pulled a fast one on an unsuspecting adult, and had only just gotten caught out. “ _ ‘Course _ I don't got a chance with Miss P, ya chuckleheads, she likes girls  _ almost _ as much as I like guys, _ duh _ !”

 

Miss Pauling initiates an uncoordinated high-five, in the stunned silence that follows. 

It grows steadily more awkward for everyone involved as the pair have to have a second and third attempt at the generally simplistic manoeuvre; predominantly because neither can see straight enough to manage it. The whole situation could have continued past the point of tolerance, had Spy not subtly cloaked himself, and used said invisibility to guide the hands together, to complete the action and bring their awkward flailing attempts to an end. 

To the relief of all present.

 

“Yeah!” Scout chirps, to Miss Pauling’s delighted, “Whoo!”

  
  


RED remains quiet for a further few seconds… and then descends into verbal chaos; mostly consternation, some surprise, mostly peppered with groans and laughter. With half the team begrudgingly being forced to press money into the palms of the others, having lost whatever bet it was they held out over the wasted pair before them. Some mumbled and threw dark glances towards the inebriated Scout and Miss Pauling; neither of whom noticed whatsoever.

 

Spy seems smuggest of all present, particularly as he seemed to have amassed the most wealth from this little betting circle. Though of course, when you bet against the intuition and intelligence of a Spy, you had best be prepared to lose; though some never learned, and yet others held hope that one day they could pull the wool over the masked man’s eyes. That was not to be this day.

 

“ _ Gentlemen _ ,  I believe we all ‘ave learned a lesson ‘ere toda-...” was all Spy managed to say, before someone shot him at point blank range. Everyone looking overtly innocent, until respawn caught the body; proving that it was still quite active at this time of night, and the Frenchman would be back to seek revenge in mere moments.

 

Everyone, sans the wasted pair, turned to look at the Engineer.

He ducked his head slightly, holstering his Frontier Justice, and not even bothering to hide his delighted beam. “Sorry folks, ah just felt that perhaps it ain’t the best time for Spah ta go on one’a his long-winded, self-congratulatory speeches. ‘Specially when we got these two sitting here, tanked to the eyeballs, and spurtin’ secrets ah don’t reckon they meant ta tell us just yet.”

 

Sniper claps the significantly shorter builder on the shoulder. “No one’s judging you mate, we were all thinking it.”

 

“Mighty kind of ya ta say, Stretch. Now, about these two…” Engie trails off, mostly because he’s still formulating where to go from here; and partially as he needs to step in and stop Pyro from hugging the pair until they turned as purple as Miss Pauling’s attire. He’s fairly certain the firestarter isn’t drunk, but they do tend to slip things under that mask mighty-fast when they want to; so the Texan might have missed a brew or three being downed by the arsonist.

Pyro could get mighty affectionate, when that happened. Dangerously so; didn’t know their own strength, and all.

  
  


“Aw…” whines Miss Pauling, entirely uncharacteristically, as Pyro is forced to let go. She’s definitely the more touch-starved of the two; and settles for leaning over so her shoulder bumps Scout’s, instead. 

 

Medic prods the glass of water closer to Miss Pauling, trying to redirect her attention to something that will help her sober up. From the corner of the room, Heavy lets out a loud yawn and, completely accidentally, smashes the small surveillance camera in the room whilst stretching. The Russian nods to the Doctor, with a knowing grin.

 

“Oops.” Came the entirely unremorseful reaction. 

Clearly, the pair had practice at this sort of subtle subterfuge.

 

“Now, ah’m sure ya didn’t mean ta tell us that, you two… but ya gotta know it ain’t gonna matter ta us.” Engie addresses Scout and Miss Pauling, who are looking at him attentively, but clearly fading in and out. “Might have guessed there were a few bets going around as ta whether ya were going ta end up together, or if there might be other reasons it ain’t working out…”

 

“Didja win anything, Engie? On account’a us being  _ wrong _ ?” Scout asks, curious in a detached way, as his eyes zero-in on where the Texan should be. The builder has half a mind to make a grab for the bottle of beer the runner still has to hand, but quashes the thought, because it might inadvertently kill the rapport they had going on. 

 

“Ah can’t say ah placed bets on anything specific, Scout, just that ah didn’t think y’all’d get together. Not that ya ain’t a great kid, but it’s hard ta take ya serious with all those cheesy lines ya always tryin’ out…” Engie sighs, truthfully. He had indeed won a small sum from Medic, who assumed that the two lonely mercenaries would eventually deal with their odd relationship one way or another. “But, and y’all listen here now, this don’t change a thing about how we’re gonna treat ya, alright?”

 

“But we’re-… did you not hear Sc-Scout before?” Miss Pauling is frowning, like it doesn’t make sense. “I… don’t like boys, but he does.” She punctuates this with a point at Scout. “And he, doesn’t like girls, but I do. I really,  _ really  _ do… they’re so…”

She sighs and makes a wavy hand-gesture that many of the other mercenaries nod seriously at, as if it made total sense. Engineer wasn’t certain if they were humouring the young woman or not.

 

The Texan takes a seat opposite the two, and rests his elbows on the table; leaning forwards to address them as best his stocky frame allows. “We heard ya, and it don’t matter ta us none if ya like girls, or boys, both or neither… ya part of the team, kids. Especially Miss P, after all the shenanigans we had ta deal with over the last few years, ‘n all. Now, ah don’t know why ya felt it was so important ta hide it from us, but ya don’t gotta worry it’ll change anything, ya hear?”

 

They’re staring blankly at him, like Engie had started speaking an alien language all of a sudden.

 

“But we’re… queer?” Miss Pauling interjects again, as if the concept had flown right over his yellow-helmeted head the last few times they’d mentioned it. 

 

Seeing it wasn’t quite getting through, Engie tried a different tactic; flipping the paradigm, so to speak, and asking them a prevalent question instead. “That ain’t all bad, is it?” he queries, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

 

It came.

  
  


“HAH! Ya fuckin’  _ kidding me _ , Engie? My brothers’d freakin’ kill me if they found out... got a real flair for fag-bashin’ back home…” Scout chuckles, dead serious and yet, his slurred, bemused tone making the sombre statement sound as if the runner found it hilarious. 

 

“A-and… and the,  _ hah _ , the Administrator… would have me sh-shot, ha hah!” Miss Pauling interjected amongst a fit of giggles. “I’m r-replaceable, there’s heaps of people who want this position… Helen’d probably get my replacement to just go ‘ _ bang _ !’  _ bullet to the brain _ , and… and then they’d, hah… ha hah… they’d have to bury me out in the desert somewhere. Like a permanent game of hide and seek, ha ha ha ha ha hah… ha…”

  
  


Considering that Medic and Heavy were about as subtle as a freight-train running through the loungeroom, it did rather surprise the rest of RED that the two young people present were so hung up on this. Then again, the outside world was different than at base, with your slightly more murderous mercenary family watching your back at all times. 

Though most doubted The Administrator would ever discard the mercenaries for something so paltry; let alone Miss Pauling, herself. Indeed, half the operation of Fortress Corp. seemed to rest solely upon the young woman’s shoulders; and it would be unusual for Helen to allow such an asset to fall from her fingers for something as mundane as sexuality.

 

However, no one had a chance to say anything along those logical, reassuring lines, because the pair were busy trying to explain their point of view on the situation. 

 

“D-don’t matter though, guys… ‘cause they ain’t never gonna find out, y-yeah?” Scout sighs, dreamily, absently fiddling with a pair of purple spectacles he clearly didn’t have a second ago. Miss Pauling didn’t seem overly perturbed by their absence. 

He also toyed with his bottle of, what had to be lukewarm beer, at this point. “They ain’t gonna, ‘c-cause we gottem all fooled, yeah? Got everyone thinkin’ we’re chasin’ each other, with the flirting and the not-interested thing… even you guys! Ya don’t even know we ain’t after each other, isn’t dat funny? Heh… freakin’  _ hilarious _ , actually.”

 

“F-Fooled them all!” adds Miss Pauling, expression overly animated and dramatic in her vehemence. The purple-clad assassin inadvertently sends her almost-empty bottle flying, in an overly-enthusiastic display of emphatic jazz-fingers; forcing Sniper to duck in order to avoid concussion, and Solly to wear the liquid as the bottle shatters on his ever-present military-grade helmet. Thankfully, the man decides not to reprimand the clearly drunk ‘PRPL Private’ in their midst, for the action.

 

“ _ Fooled them all… _ ” she repeats, almost to herself, before her gazes shoots up and latches on the faces of nearby mercenaries. “We’re v-very straight, very! We do the flir-flirting and stuff, f-for the cameras… and the kissing, if we’re in a bar and people get w-weird. T-totally normal stuff that normal... that  _ normal people _ do. Y-you’d never _ susp _ -...  _ suspec _ -...  _ think _ we were  _ wrong _ , ...r-right?”

 

That desperate gaze became pleading, as it aimed towards the REDs crowded into the small room; echoed on Scout’s own countenance, as if begging to be believed. The other mercenaries in the room do their best to reign in any impulse to laugh at the frankly ridiculous situation that had unravelled; predominantly due to the serious nature of the subjects discussed. It would do noone any good for the pair to believe their teammates had discounted their statements and secrets so flippantly.

 

It is Heavy who steps forwards to take up the conversational slack in the sudden silence.

“ _ Da _ , leetle Pauling and leetle Scout have done good job at deception. Ve are all very convinced.”

 

Pyro and the other men in the room nod vehemently at the statement, providing slightly fictitious confirmation that they did, indeed, believe in Scout and Miss Pauling’s apparently non-existent heterosexuality. Sometimes, being part of a team means lying through your teeth to allay even the most ridiculous of fears.

 

Engineer takes this interlude, when the two youngest people in the room are occupied searching the faces of the other gathered mercenaries for reassurance, to subtly deal with the esky full of ice and cold beers away from the pair. Though neither had made a move to grab a new refreshment, possibly because it being half a table-length away made it seem impossible to reach, it was better safe than sorry in the Texan’s book. 

The two were tanked as it was, on only a few beers apiece, if that. No need to go adding more fuel to the fire, as it were.

  
  


“Oh… good,” slurs Scout around a sleepy grin, “‘cause I was runnin’ outta bad pick-up lines ta try on Miss P infronta alla ya… got like, three left.” The batter held up four fingers, seemingly completely unconcerned that he was sliding off his seat and under the table at a languid pace. Almost as if he were a melting popsicle coming free of its stick. 

 

For her part, Miss Pauling appears as if she’s about to add something of import to the conversation; mouth slightly ajar, finger raised, and eyelids sluggishly forcing themselves open as she stares at Heavy. But, in the space of one heartbeat to another, her eyes shut tight with an air of finality and a small snore-like sound echoes from between her parted lips, as the purple-clad assassin flops backwards off her chair. Landing on the floor with a light thud; dead asleep. 

  
  


Craning his head in that direction, Scout giggles at the spectacle for all of two seconds or so, before disappearing under the table for good; as if he’d just won the most bizarre version of limbo, ever. When no sound of complaint or hilarity issues forth for more than a few seconds, Heavy bends to look underneath the dining table, noting that the runner had flopped upon the floor in a supine position; entirely as unconscious as the purple-clad counterpart, to whom the spectacles he was still currently wearing, belonged.

 

The Russian straightens and shakes his head to indicate that the runner is also asleep; and therefore the remaining REDs are free to discuss the situation. Some are silent, others laugh into their palms; because this was definitely not how anyone had anticipated the party to go, when they had insisted Miss Pauling join them, earlier that very day. 

  
  


“Vell, zhat vas certainly interesting.” Medic says, clearly intending to say something further, but is cut-off when a furious Spy elbows the German out of the way. 

 

The Frenchman stops dead, thunderous expression morphing into that of uncharacteristic confusion as he beholds the chaotic scene before him. Medic recovers from the other man’s rude entrance, and decides to take pity rather than chastise.

 

“Here,” he says, handing over a glass of some sort of red wine. 

 

Spy accepts it, with a curious look at the medical man. Medic just shakes his head, “Trust me, you do not vant to know, Herr Spy.”

 

“Oh, I assure you, Docteur, I most certainly do… though per’aps later.” responded the espionage agent, absently. His gaze was directed towards the recumbent forms littering their team dining-slash-common room’s floor. “Are they safe to remain as they are, Medic, or must we move zhem somewhere else so zat ze festivities may continue?”

 

Startled, Medic puts down his own beverage and pushes his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, to better peer at what little of Scout and Miss Pauling he could see from his vantage point. Like it hadn’t occurred to the man to check; perhaps he’d been without that Hippocratic Oath for a little too long…

He moves around to Miss Pauling first; slipping off a glove to check for a pulse, breathing, clicking his fingers near an ear to check level of responsiveness and getting a stifled whine in response. Then repeating the process, slightly awkwardly due to the location of the runner, with Scout; receiving an equally annoyed whine as he taps the Bostonian’s face to elicit a response.

 

As the German stood, he addressed the room in general. “Medically, zhey are utterly  _ scheisse-faced _ . However, it is my professional opinion zhat zhey vill be fine... although I suspect zhey vill be paying, quite heavily, for zhis in zhe morning. For safety purposes, perhaps a change of location… und, Herr Soldier, vould you know vhere we could locate a bucket or two?”

 

“Affirmative,  _ very-american-medical-man _ .” Solly said, oddly quietly compared to his normal ear-shattering tone. “I will retrieve this item immediately. Continue providing care to the Privates.”

 

Medic half-heartedly saluted back, as Soldier marched off to retrieve the requested items.

Heavy had already pulled Scout from under the table in this interlude; currently amidst the process of hoisting both the runner and Miss Pauling into his arms, as if the pair weighed nothing to him. 

It was entirely possible they did not, considering the way they seemed to disappear in the grasp of the Russian’s large arms. Even through all this, neither stirred more than a faint twitch, or to press closer to the large, warm body of the team’s Heavy Weapons guy. 

 

A whirring click brought the room’s attention to Spy, who was blatantly documenting the situation on his tiny handheld camera. When questioning glances were sent his way, the Frenchman shrugged, grinned, and decided not clarify his exact reasoning for the rest of RED.

  
  


“There’s space on the couch, if you wanna put ‘em there, big fella.” Sniper adds into the silence, tilting his head in indication. The larger man nods back and moves across the room, placing the pair down and arranging them top-to-tail quite easily. He’d clearly had practice at this sort of thing, with his sisters; they’d have to ask Zhanna about it, when she got back to America.

 

Pyro throws a blanket over them. 

No one asks where the firebug got it from, or when they’d had time to retrieve it… considering they’d been present the entire time; but they seemed happy to contribute to the situation somehow. Soldier’s bootsteps could be heard returning down the hallway at a measured pace, and presumably, a bucket or two would be in place shortly.

  
  


Heavy and Pyro return to the rest of the grouping, all gathered about the dining table.

 

Engie’s gloved hand is whirring, servers running through unnecessary maintenance cycles, like the man tended to initiate whenever he felt stressed or contemplative about a situation. Spy was smoking again, much to the obvious distaste of Medic, who was to his immediate left. 

 

Sniper… might have fallen asleep standing up again; but was quickly roused when Pyro nudged him in the ribs. Reaching automatically for his kukri, before recalling he was at a party, and relaxing as best he could for someone brought up in a country where everything was out to kill you. 

  
  


Soldier made a show of quietly ordering the pair of sleeping Privates to throw up in the buckets provided,  _ and only the buckets _ , should they need to. He also ordered them to get better quickly, or he’d have them running laps; which was a mixed message if anyone had ever heard one.

By the time he stalked over to them, Heavy was already making the unconscious pair sandviches; ready for whenever the pair awoke and felt the need to fill their bellies with something solid. Reinforcing the unspoken realisation that the man had far more experience wrangling drunken younger siblings, than he’d ever let on to the rest of the team.

  
  


“Well now, ah think we’ve finally worked out what’s had those darn kids so strung out around us all this time, then.” Engie ventures into the quiet. Receiving a chorus of non-committal noises in response; over the sudden twang of Tom Jones's latest hit, ‘ _ What’s New, Pussycat? _ ’

It seemed an odd choice to accompany the serious nature of the conversation, but no one could be bothered to deal with the record player just at that particular moment; and so his discordant lilting carried about the room, and was largely ignored by everyone.

  
  


“Vhile I know many of us zhink such things are not of great import, und are as inherent as one’s eye colour… please try to remember zhat to zhe  _ kinder _ it is a big deal. Should zhey recall vhat vas discussed zhis night, I urge you to treat zhe topic respectfully.” Medic shot a particularly significant glance at Spy, as he spoke. 

 

Spy shrugged, lit another cigarette, and took his time to respond. “Indeed. Although it would be ironic, should many member of zis table decide to treat such a topic flippantly with ze boy and Miss Pauling. I ‘ave seen all your files,  _ mes amies _ ; so it would behoove you to treat ze docteur’s suggestion with great caution… lest something awkward from your pasts be offered instead of an apology for callous words.”

 

Sniper, in particular, was looking at the masked man with some degree of concern. The sharpshooter brushed it off by saying, “As if anyone in this room would use it against ‘em, pretty sure holding secrets over people’s heads is your job, Spook.”

 

“It is, as you say, Bushman.” sneered Spy in response. “But my point remains valid. If, indeed, either of ze children recall any of zis in ze morning… which zhey may not, considering what lightweights zhey are… zen it would be best for everyone to be’ave zhemselves.”

 

“The Privates did their unit proud, boys.” Soldier interjects, again in that strange whisper-scream he had adopted due to the zonked ‘privates’ a few feet away on the room’s couch. “And whether they recall this intel or not, upon completing their tour of duty in dreamland, then we will treat them no differently than before. _ Do you maggots understand me _ ?”

 

“Vividly.” Medic assures, resisting the urge to blantantly wipe the American’s errant spray of spittle off of his face, as it might be misconstrued. “However, as ve all agree zhat no further discussion need be addressed on ze topic, I say ve get back to enjoying ze party,  _ ja _ ?”

 

“I’m with the Doc on this one, guys.” Engineer chimes in with, backing up the Medic. “Ain’t no more we can say on the matter, and there’s still a truckful of alcohol we could be enjoying ourselves with. So,  _ have at it _ , fellas.”

 

There’s a ripple of delighted agreement from the others standing or sitting about the table; and a great clattering of chairs and boots as all rise to continue the celebration. 

All, save one, that is.

  
  


“ _ Hold it lads _ .” Demoman’s deep voice echoes, everyone freezing in place at the serious edge to the tone. Individuals turn to look at the Scot, who had remained silent until now; chin resting on his clasped hands, and leaning over the table like some sort of evil villain. 

 

“Now Demo, ya can’t possibly be the one ta have a hang up on this sorta thing…” Engie implores, rather confused. If anyone was going to have an issue with it, he’d have bet on Scout, and well… everyone could see how wrong that would have been. But Demo?  _ Never _ .

 

“Nae, boyo, it ain’t like that. Though it is tae do with it…” answered the Scot, eye flickering up to meet those of his teammates, one by one. “Seems we’ve missed out the most important question of them all, lads, about the loudmouthed boyo over there… and it could change everything.”

 

“Now, now, ya just gettin’ yaself worked up over nothing, Demo. Let’s just have something ta drink, and work it out in the morning, if they even recall tonight’s big reveal… and ah can’t honestly say they will, considering.” reasoned the Texan, rather hoping he was reading this wrong. 

 

Demo fixed him with a cold stare. “Oh, aye, I’m gonnae drink until I run through respawn, but it isnae going to allay the problem. Just delay getting an answer about it…” 

 

“Uh,” Engineer glanced about to the others for help, but they all seemed to be minding their own business all of a sudden. “Alright then, pardner… how about we work on that first bit, the drinking part… and we’ll address the second part in the morning. Sounds like a plan?”

 

He gets a nod in response, but the Texan’ll take it. 

 

Demo rises from the table gracefully, perusing the bottles on display before making a selection. “This one’ll be a good one ta start on, but mark me words, lads, this isnae over yet.”

 

Engie sighs, picking up his own bottle. This was going to be interesting.

 

~)0(~

 

Bored of the drama, and having wandered across the room from the others, the ever-observant Sniper stills, with a deep frown marring his features. Having just cottoned on to something, that had gone largely unnoticed by the rest of the room.

 

“Hey Spook,” he says in a quiet, scratchy growl, at the masked man beside him. “Has… that record gotten stuck, or is ‘ _ What’s New Pussycat? _ ’ a lot longer than I first thought…?”

 

The sharpshooter turns to find he’s now talking to thin air, as the record finally…  _ finally _ , clicks over to ‘ _ It’s Not Unusual _ ’. And the Kiwi breathes a sigh of relief, mystery solved.

 

~)0(~

 

Like most mornings following excessive amounts of drinking or celebration, various members of the team attempt to rise and start their day on a multitude of occasions. Mostly deciding to crawl back to bed and wait for death… including Medic, who currently held the key to their salvation, in the Kritzkrieg; a medigun designed with hungover mercenaries in mind.

 

Unsurprisingly, Demo was the first awake and actually on his feet. Cheerfully showering and brushing his teeth as if he hadn’t put his liver through its paces the night before… and still avoided respawn. He was ‘a miracle in a kilt’, as the trashed Engineer had said, sometime around five in the morning; while the Scot was carefully putting the Texan to bed, as it was unlikely the builder could have gotten there on his own. Demo had laughed, agreed, and gone to check on the rest of his teammates.

 

His enthusiastic, wholesome state after such a night only inspired pure hatred in his fellow, hungover teammates; and for some, it was enough to get them on their feet, and slumping towards the shared bathrooms in search of relief from body odour and the sour tastes in their mouths. On the other hand, being awake first meant it was his technical duty to poke the sleeping bear, as it was.

 

For, while Medic was the one who controlled the mediguns… no one in their right mind,  _ or out of it _ , would dare to wake him; except for the bravest of them all, the Heavy. Who could take damage like a champ and was unafraid of the threat Medic posed to his continued wellbeing.

Therefore, to get everyone else up and functioning again, Demo had to wake the Russian up long enough to convince his terrifying German boyfriend to rise and manipulate the Kritzkrieg. Thereby getting the rest of RED on their feet, to face the coming day.

 

Not that Heavy was any less intimidating in the morning; it was just… that he was more understanding, and less likely to jam a bonesaw through your chest, with all the annoyed semi-consciousness that people often displayed while turning off an alarm clock buzzer. That had happened far too many times, and now no one wanted to get the good Doctor up; save the one man who never got that treatment.

Except, you had to wake him up first; and Heavy never made it easy. Perhaps it was a perverse sort of game to the Russian; but nonetheless, Demo had discovered that cooking pancakes, and wafting the scent of the fresh breakfast food towards the mountain of a man usually did the trick. 

 

And this morning was no exception. 

 

Finally, with a grumbling Medic blearily working the medigun to heal first himself, then Heavy, and a brief overheal of the Demo; the morning was set to begin, as it always did, after a party. The refreshed Medic would get as many people as he could over breakfast, then start kicking in bedroom doors and shower stalls, looking for any errant teammates too hungover to seek help.

 

It never failed to be an amusing show for the few sober mercenaries around to watch their comrades-in-arms being hunted down (in a completely justifiable and beneficial way) by a maniacally-grinning German Medic. Who, it could be said, probably needed to tone down the soul-chilling laughter that he let out, everytime he found a helpless  _ victi- _ ... patient. 

  
  


Surprisingly, despite the decimated appearance of the base; everyone seemed in a relatively mobile state, as they stumbled into the kitchen, seeking caffeine and the Medic’s patented hangover-cure.  _ At least the dining table seemed to have escaped unscathed _ , many a mercenary thought, as they sat down to commiserate missing memories, over piping hot cups of tea or coffee.

 

Furniture had been moved to odd places, or stacked up high, as if someone had intended to build a barricade. The record player was found in the pantry cupboard, by a confused Pyro; but as of the current moment, no one had seen the Tom Jones record.

 

Sniper grinned into his coffee cup, as Engineer haltingly translated Pyro’s mumbled story of the missing vinyl to the rest of the team. He didn’t remember too much after the whole ‘Scout and Miss Pauling’ situation, but there was a definite flash of recollection regarding the sharpshooter flinging the bloody thing out the window like a discus around three am that morning… because he couldn’t take another rendition of that damn  _ pussycat _ song. 

 

Spy kept throwing him looks, as if the masked blighter knew exactly what had happened. Ah, fuck it, it didn’t matter if he did or didn’t, anyway.

  
  


Engineer waited long enough for Medic to give him the full overheal treatment, then got up to get breakfast cooking; with assistance from Pyro, who adored the opportunity to show the fire could be helpful, not just harmful. Also, they had a tendency to pour spice onto omelettes and bacon, if the Texan didn’t watch them closely enough.

 

Soldier had to be fetched from his room, in the usual fashion, by Heavy and Medic. Which meant they kicked down the door… Solly unleashed the raccoons on them; and it devolved from there, until the trio marched into the common living space with varied expressions. Soldier delighted, Heavy amused, and Medic murderous. 

  
  


Bacon was already being put on the table for their late breakfast, by the time someone made a low moan on the couch. Forcing a second voice to let out a stuttered retch, in response, as whoever made the original noise clearly elbowed them in the stomach whilst trying to sit upright. 

 

“If anyone is alive over zhere, und vould like me to heal zhem, say ‘ _ Medic _ !’.” chirps the Doctor, absently, as he inspects his omelette for any over seasoning likely to give him third-degree burns upon the roof of his mouth. It had happened before.

 

“Guh…  _ uuuuhg _ .” a clearly feminine tone manages, as Miss Pauling’s pale, pinched expression barely clears the back of the couch, squinting at where the voice came from. Her glasses were on the dining table, removed from Scout as an afterthought, just in case, the night before.

 

“I’m sorry, zhat vas not ze correct phrase.” teases Medic, as the purple-clad woman waves a hand in his direction a moment more like a drowning swimmer trying to signal a lifeguard, then flops back out of sight. Startling a pained yelp from the other occupant, who is promptly displaced by the shift, and therefore falls onto the floor with a quiet thud. Narrowly avoiding slamming into either bucket, by millimetres. 

  
  


“Sn... _ ngh _ !” says Miss Pauling, to the spread-eagled Scout, making a limp hand-gesture towards where the rest of RED is sitting. “ _ Mhhh...dc, plssss _ ?”

 

“ _ Dowit yaslf _ …” he responds, annoyed, as if the strangled noises the pair made were part of some recognisable language and they were having a real conversation before the other mercenaries. 

 

“Sk- _ hhhhhhhhhhhhhooouuuuu _ t.” wheedles the purple-clad assassin, voice rather distressed; most likely over the inability to get her limbs to work right, due to the pounding in her temples.

 

“ _ Alrhit _ …” Scout relents, and clears his dry throat a little.  _ “Meeeeeehhh...diiiiiik _ !”

  
  


“Did you hear something, Herr Heavy?” The German asks his big Russian bear of a boyfriend, “I zhink zhere vas something on zhe vind, just now.”

 

Heavy gives Medic a reproachful glare. “ _ Da _ , should investigate.  _ Immediately _ .”

 

“Are you sure, I could have been hearing zhings…” Medic grinned, hearing the strangled cry of despair coming from two separate human beings, across the room. Enjoying the whole scenario far too much.

 

“ _ Meh-dik _ !” The first voice tried again, Miss Pauling finally getting some control over her voice as she called again. “ _ Medic _ !” 

Finally, a small purple cross began to hover over her location, and she sighed in relief.

The sound was immediately drowned out by Scout’s shrill cry of, “ _ MEDIC _ !”, clearly not for his own benefit; if the way he was patting Miss Pauling on the head was any indicator. As his own red cross appeared, hovering close by hers. 

 

“Oh,  _ zhere _ you are, I vas wondering…” Medic teased, making a show of getting up. Taking perverse joy in the quiet almost-sobs that were starting to emanate from beyond the couch, and deciding not to let it get too far out of control.

 

“Ja, I am coming,  _ kinder _ . Keep your undergarments on.” Medic beamed, striding across the room whilst fiddling with his medigun. He looked down at the pale, rather pathetic pair; both stretched out and squinting up at him from different levels of elevation. Peaky faces illuminated by faint purple and red beacons, before Medic’s proximity made the crosses dissolve. “Now, vhat seems to be ze problem?”

 

“ _ Doooooooooooc _ …” Scout whines, expressing the enormity of his discomfort in so few syllables. Miss Pauling adds a similar sound, ending hers with a sad tremble of her bottom lip that was as uncharacteristic… as it was  _ devastatingly effective _ . 

 

“Alright,  _ kinder, _ just take a deep breath and hold on vhile I set zhe medigun to vork on your hangovers. Although, you are very adorable like zhis…” Medic hums absently as the two youngest groan dramatically from their respective places on couch and floor alike. He takes a moment to enjoy the silence, and then activates the Kritzkrieg; sending a jet of healing red light over the pair. 

 

Scout recuperates first, given his affinity for the medigun’s rays; and his RED-specific compatibility chip. Miss Pauling takes a little longer, as her own implants are predominantly dual-focused (for emergency healing via RED or BLU team Medic intervention), and had not been used in a long time.

However, even with overheal pumping through them, the pair are sluggish to respond; crawling upright and back to reality as if consciousness was unfairly persecuting them. Some degree of mumbled thanks emanate from each of the youth, and Medic nods his acknowledgement to the pair.

  
  


Generally alive, Scout and Miss Pauling shuffle over to the table at various speeds, not caring one iota how dishevelled their appearance; which was ruffled and shoeless, at best description. More accurately described as  _ ‘fought a garbage compactor and lost _ ’. Though no one present would be callous enough to lay it out like that, to the young mercenaries.

 

Medic followed behind slowly, giving the impression he was herding them across the room; like a shepherd would guide a flock to better pastures. Clearly intrigued by the lack of energetic response from either young person; whom he thought would respond most vigorously to the medigun’s influence.

  
  


“Sit down before ya fall down, you two.” Engineer invites, rising to steer Miss Pauling and Scout into seats before they plum fell over. “Ain’t never seen someone hit hard enough that the old kritzkreig don’t put much of a dent in it, but ah reckon it’s maybe because ya didn’t put enough in ya stomach before ya went drinking. Or that ya such tiny little things, maybe.” 

 

Scout’s expression when he sees the bacon on offer seems to simultaneously confirm and discredit that theory. Miss Pauling’s stomach gurgles, but even she chooses to look away from the breakfast foods, a little green.

 

“Normally, a greasy breakfast is just what ya need ta get over that there hangover of yours… but for lightweights,” His expression behind those ever-present goggles flat-out  _ dared _ Scout to argue that label. “Ya need something a mite more substantial, and settling.”

 

“ _ Da _ , is true. Heavy made sandviches for leetle Pauling and Scout. Must promise to eat them, before trying anything else. Vill make you feel better.” Heavy interjected, returning from the kitchen with two clingwrapped packages and distributing them between the two.

 

Medirays extended to imbue the sandviches with additional health benefits; the type of which made no sense from a medical or logical perspective, and yet... worked,  _ somehow _ . Medic and Engineer had spent weeks trying to figure out how Heavy had engineered the sandvich to hold medigun charges… and yet, nothing.

  
  


Hesitantly, the pair began to unwrap the foodstuffs, taking their time so as to get used to the concept of eating. It was painful to watch; mostly because the other mercenaries had been there before, and it was not a fun collection of memories to drudge up.

Finally, they began to take small nibbles… which turned into bigger bites, and finally ravenous cramming of sandvich into mouth, as the hunger and healing effects held sway over the pair. Another scene that is equal parts familiar, and horrifying to behold.

  
  


Miss Pauling is studying her fingers, as if she just realised they were there. “Hah, I can feel everything again… even if I can’t quite make out what anything is, exactly. Has anyone seen my glasses?”

 

Spy passes them up the table to Sniper, who dutifully returns them to their rightful owner.

 

“Oh, thank goodness, The Administrator gets really mad when I misplace my glasses. The last time they had to be replaced, she gave me internal affairs assignments for a month; and let me tell you, burying bodies is far more fun than dealing with every little human resource complaint.” She chattered, feeling much more herself; far more… centered, than a few moments ago… when she could practically _ feel  _ the Reaper breathing down her neck.

 

“Well dat sucks, but if ya want, we can have a lil’ ‘ _ internal affair’  _ of our own dat’s waaaaay more fun, if ya catch my drift…” Scout winks at her, and Miss Pauling good-naturedly rolls her eyes in disinterest. 

 

“Thanks, but I’d prefer the paperwork, Scout.” She deadpans back.

  
  


About them, the other mercenaries are shifting glances to one another, sharing surprise and disbelief that they actually  _ had _ managed to forget last night’s events; and pertinent topics of conversation. Considering how emotionally charged the situation had been, the REDs had felt quite certain that at least  _ some _ imprint would have remained. Then again, the youngest present had been overhealed, and still looked like hammered crap; so it was hard to say how their minds had managed to survive as intact as they had. Maybe a few memories had gone missing along the way. It happened.

  
  


However, the mercenaries weren’t as subtle as they thought.

 

“Hey, what’re ya looking at each other like dat for? Oh gawd, what’d we do? Cause ya wouldn’t be overreacting if we just got naked and covered in honey, like Solly does…” Scout rambled, trying to quash his sudden sense of urgent dread and panic. “Please tell me we had pants on at least, yeah?”

 

“Calm down, you little drongo, of course you had pants on. Ain’t what you did, more what you said; and even then it wasn’t too big of a deal… we all say weird stuff when we’re drunk.” Sniper responds, shrugging.

 

“W...What kind of something did we say?” Miss Pauling asks, aiming for nonchalance, and falling squarely on deceitful calm overlaying significant, and evident, panic. Her eyes darted to the broken security camera on instinct, before settling on the…  _ New Zealander  _ sharpshooter.

 

He paused a moment, then decided to let them off the hook easy. “Oh nothing, just that you two might have gone a bit overboard in a pub, and gotten a bit handsy to the approval of the entire bar. Those sort of shenanigans you young brats are up to these days…”

  
  


Everyone at the table saw the pair breathe a deep sigh of relief. Although, if the frowns marring the pair’s faces were anything to go by, it was clear that some part of them didn’t quite believe that answer. That deep down, whether they knew it or not, Scout and Miss Pauling were fully aware of what had transpired last night… and the rest of RED was already bracing for that impact.

 

Demo was unusually quiet, just watching them, as if he could make them remember with his concentrated gaze alone. He had a burning question that needed answering.

  
  


“If ya still hungry, we have bacon and eggs, and Pyro’s made waffles too…” Engie offers, to forestall any additional lines of questioning. He holds out the plate with his gloved hand, and the two young mercenaries pull a few pieces of delicious homecooked breakfast food towards them. 

 

Scout falls onto the bacon like it’ll disappear if he doesn’t eat it fast enough; and Medic had to jab the runner in the shoulder to get him to slow down… and take a breath. The Bostonian’s expression is initially sheepish, and ends up in a frown aimed at his meal; as if he can’t quite believe he’d done that. No one went hungry on RED base, wasn’t like home’s  _ first-come, first-serve  _ policy. 

 

Miss Pauling, however, chooses one of the Pyro’s waffles; and pours an ample amount of syrup across the crispy golden surface. She decides to eat it burger style; after all, the purple-clad assassin’s clothes are already dirty and the woman herself in need of a serious shower, it’s not like she can make it  _ worse _ by eating messily. Also, The Administrator never let her eat with her hands… so, in a strange way, this particular item was a form of rebellion; even if Helen would never see it.

  
  


She has a mouthful of waffle when Spy sighs, “Enough of zis nonsense!” from a few seats up the table, and leans forwards to look her in the eyes. 

“Miss Pauling, what kind of woman do you like? Tall? Short? Blonde? Green Eyes? Ze sporty type, or someone more like yourself, mademoiselle? Tell us what we are working with, ‘ere.” 

 

And all of a sudden, the petite young woman is  _ choking _ on that delicious waffle, as the reality of what must have  _ come out  _ (so to speak) last night, comes to light.

  
  


Scout’s eyes are wide, realising that clearly they’re both exposed here, and trying to wrap his mind around it when Demo decides now was the most (in)appropriate moment to make his move.  _ Engie’s disapproving look be damned. _

 

The runner nearly leaps fourteen feet in the air, _ alongside the bacon, eggs and crockery _ , as Demoman suddenly slams his hands down on the tabletop; sending all else aloft. Singular eye locked onto Scout’s face with burning intent as he demands, “Laddie,  _ for the love of all that’s holy _ , I dinnae care if ye like the boyos over the lassies, but  _ just tell me _ … which one’o the team ye find most to ye liking? What type’a man do ye fancy, laddie?”

 

“Uh…” Scout intelligently responds, doing everything in his power not to look directly at any one team mate and give the answer away. “ _ Pass _ .”

 

So saying, he shoots up from the table, thwacks Miss Pauling on the back so that the waffle piece dislodges neatly; then drags her up and away from this awkward conversation. They speed off out the doors, as if that will save them from the curious mercenaries of RED.

 

“Say what you like about the Privates,” Solly adds, proudly, into the settling atmosphere of the room. “ _ But they sure as hell know how to make a tactical retreat. _ ”

  
  


Spy raises his eyebrows behind that ever-present magenta-mask. “Indeed, Soldier. ‘Owever, it must be argued zhat running, is not an effective avoidance tactic.” 

And so saying, the man cloaked, presumably to chase down their errant member and guest, to ask a few questions away from prying eyes and ears. They couldn’t get too far, shoeless and half-aware.

  
  


“Well,” said Demo, slightly put out that his interrogation tactics hadn’t yielded a proper result. “I didnae get a straight answer, but I’m gonnae take the refusal tae elaborate a sign that he fancies me over you lot.”

 

“ _ Vhatever helps you sleep at night. _ ” Medic rolls his eyes and leans towards Heavy. “Just once, I vish ve could have a normal breakfast on zhis base.” 

 

The Doctor can feel the larger man’s laughter as it rumbles through the gargantuan body, making his skin tingle. “Nyet, Doktor. Vould be  _ boring _ . Too quiet, no chance to make bonesaw face in morning.” Heavy responds, knowingly. 

 

“You are, as always, correct mein liebling.” sighs the Medic, making that very demonic expression as the sounds of two panicked young people being ambushed by Spy, reached the common room. 

  
  


“Should we go save them?” Sniper asks, head tilted to hear the commotion better.

 

“Nah, they’re more’n’likely ta tell Spah, anyway. And he can be… reasoned with, ta tell the truth, when he gets back.” responded Engie, laying his massive wrench on the table.

 

“While I’m agreeing with ye, Truckie my lad, I just want tae know where the heck ye produced that from?” said a shocked Demo, gazing at the massive tool, which innocently adorned the table, as if it always had been. “Do ye make a habit of carrying it about with ye or is today special?”

 

Engineer’s lips curled up at the edges, and those goggled eyes locked onto the startled Sniper’s as the Texan responded. “Oh…  _ It’s not Unusual _ .”

 

And that’s when things truly descended into chaos, as Sniper launched himself across the table at the man.

 

**Author's Note:**

> And that was when the evening went from Good, to Great.
> 
> Totally not crying with laughter at my own terrible ending. I promise.


End file.
